Lo, how the lips that Portia pressed but late
Against the opened casket, blessing lead
With the gold beauty of her bended head,
In proud abandonment to that dear fate
It gave her forth, the casket fortunate,—
Lo, how these lips forego their wreathéd red
Above the scroll that speaks his danger dread
Who holds her lover in sad heart and great!
Now in her spacious soul doth Sorrow meet
Warm Joy, that, generous, gives the pale one place,